


And All I Ever Got From You (Is All I Ever Took from You)

by Devilc



Category: Supernatural, Terminator: Sarah Connor Chronicles
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-09
Updated: 2010-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-06 01:37:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilc/pseuds/Devilc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hard to keep secrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And All I Ever Got From You (Is All I Ever Took from You)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brynwulf](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=brynwulf).



> Sequel to [Not With a Bang, but a Whimper](http://archiveofourown.org/works/48292) and [Not With a Whimper, but a Bang](http://archiveofourown.org/works/48297), which you must read for these to make sense.

Dean laughs when Derek presses him down on to the couch, pulls his shirt off, and climbs on top, grinding and kissing, ravenous.

The door banged shut on Sam not a minute ago -- he's gone over to help John with a History paper, the sort of thing neither Sarah nor Cameron **It** are much use for.

Dean doesn't try to break the kiss, or try to take it down the hall to his bedroom or say something like, "What if my brother comes back?" or "What if they come over here?"

The fact that Sam or John might walk through that door at any moment? Derek's pretty sure that's a part of why Dean's so turned on -- the risk of getting caught. Derek, on the other hand, has never had sex on a couch or a real bed. A mat on the floor, a soldier's cot, yes, but there aren't a whole lot of opportunities for necking on the couch after. There isn't a whole lot of privacy in the tunnels, either. People just find a quiet tunnel or a dark corner and if anybody happens by, they just turn their head, pretend they didn't see, and keep on walking.

"Shirt," Dean murmurs against his lips as he rears up a bit, his hands scrabbling at the hem. Derek helps him pull it off and drops it next to his own.

He sits back, studying Dean's scars. They seem different from what he remembers glimpsing as a teenager in the future. Also, Dean obviously hasn't gotten Derek's favorite scar yet -- the one shaped like a handprint.

Anyhow, Dean makes a low and throaty noise when Derek licks-nips-sucks at a bullet wound scar, still new enough to be pinkish as opposed to the tired gray of an old one.

"Chicks dig the scars," Dean murmurs.

Derek grins back at him and growls, "Fuck yeah." He feels kind of proud that compared to Dean, he's got some doozies. Real badges of pain and courage.

"Damn ..." Dean's voice trails off when his hand maps the one on Derek's left shoulder blade.

_Plasma rifle_. Of course, he can't say that. "Hot oil," Derek replies to the question that Dean asked with his eyes.

Dean's eyes flick over his chest. "You've got a lot for a chick to dig."

"Or the right kind of guy." Derek's hands head for Dean's fly. "You're not so bad yourself."

Dean's snarky reply cuts off, gets mutated into a throaty rasp as soon as Derek slips in and gets a hand on him.

(_So big and hot and wet for it_.)

Dean unbuckles and unzips him, reaching in, and it takes everything in Derek to stop Dean after he closes his hand around Derek and gives that first good stroke with his deliciously callused hand. "Hold that thought," he hisses, staying Dean's hand.

Dean blinks in surprise as Derek makes his legs move, makes himself climb off of Dean, unzip his boots, toe them off and then step out of his jeans. Derek's never seen Dean's eyes look so huge before, or so intensely green, and a wave of memory crashes over him  the weeks when it seemed like Dean's eyes were the only green thing left in a world of grays, and browns, and the red of too much spilled blood.

Now, as then, the sound of Dean's voice snaps him back to reality. "What?" Derek asks, blinking.

"I asked if you had a condom."

Derek throws his head back and laughs because ... condoms. Talk about one of the realities of life _before_. He's never not barebacked. Babies were wanted, an act of defiance. (Not to mention three months off the front lines for any woman who'd managed not to get killed or miscarry by the end of her second trimester.) And in the camps? A positive test for HIV, Hepatitis, Tuberculosis, or Syphilis got one slated for immediate termination. (Workers with them sickened and died too quickly and that put the termination program behind schedule.)

So. Condoms. Yeah, right.

Derek knows the risks for life before, knows the risks of the life he lives now. "It's a chance I'm willing to take."

"Shit." Dean rears up and fishes his wallet out of his jeans. "I'm not." He pulls a condom out of it. "This is going to hurt like hell, you know."

It's a pre-lubed condom, and Derek laughs again on the inside, because _lube_. "Don't worry, I don't mind going old school," he replies, climbing back on to straddle Dean. He sticks two fingers in his mouth and gets them good and wet before rearing up and forward and sliding them in.

(The _look_ in Dean's eyes when he does that, it's ... it's everything Derek's ever wanted from him. Everything Derek's ever wanted to give him.)

Gingerly he tears the foil open and smooths the condom down over Dean, it's about as slick and wet as a good spit job, so there shouldn't be any problems, and as he positions himself, Dean asks one last time if he's sure and, God, that's so Dean ... always thinking about others.

Derek doesn't say anything, just screws his eyes shut and hisses through clenched teeth all the way down.

It's _burn/hurt/too-much/so good_, but it's always this way. Always what he expected it to be like with Dean.

"Jesus," Dean gasps, and Derek rocks his hips and laughs at the strangled sound Dean makes in reply.

He starts slow, giving his body time to adjust, savoring the burn, putting on a show for Dean, and then there's a few experimental strokes as he searches for the right angle, and then  his breath hitches  he finds it and once he's got it dialed in, Derek sets an intense pace, brutal, riding Dean hard to the finish, shouting in triumph when Dean's hips snap up hard three times and his eyes flutter and roll up in his head, and that, the sight of Dean completely losing it sends Derek over the edge, his hips doing their own snapping, everything in his body contracting down and surging out.

"Oh God, Dean!" he shouts as he shoots hard, three times all over Dean's chest.

And then lands in it about two seconds later, smashes it to a gluey, sticky mess all over the two of them, because he is _done_.

When he stops shaking and twitching and can finally speak again, he apologizes for the mess.

He feels more than hears Dean's chortle, as a hand comes up and cards through his sweat damp hair. Dean kisses him for several moments before he fishes around on the floor and comes up with a shirt to wipe them clean.

Derek's shirt, of course.

~oo(0)oo~

"I guess you'll have to borrow one of mine," Dean says as they're both sitting on the couch. "Unless you'd like to go home in this," he says, holding out Derek's stained and crumpled shirt. "and more or less announce what we've been up to."

Derek laughs. "I'll pass, but given that time I walked through the door with a hickey the size of Texas?"

Dean cocks his head and studies Derek's neck intently, chewing his lip nervously, making Derek actually reach up and see if he can feel anything, before Dean shouts, "Psyche!"

"Bastard." Derek swats at him before standing and following Dean down the hall to his room.

Dean rummages in the dresser for a moment. "I think I've got something in here that shouldn't be too tight." Because, even though they're of a hight, Derek's got a more solid build. He holds out his hand to take the shirt, when without warning, Dean spins him and slams him into the wall, bending his left arm up and back in the process so that Derek's now in a position that he knows no human can get out of without dislocating something. Dean's also got a knife at his throat.

"Christo," Dean hisses.

"What?" Derek says about as clearly as he can with his face pressed to the paint.

Dean pulls his left arm a fraction higher and Derek's eyes water from the pain. "How about you tell me why you called me Dean?"

_Shit!_

Sarah's going to kill him.

If Dean doesn't first.

Sucking in a deep breath, Derek says, "How about you ease off a hair and put the pig sticker away?"

"I'm waiting," Dean says after takes the knife away from Derek's throat.

"Have you ever heard of Cyberdine systems? Of Skynet?"

"I might have," Dean says after a long pause.

"You're of interest to them and ... that's what I'm here about. I've made it a hobby of mine to see that they don't get what they want."

"Okay," Dean says and releases him. Derek slowly turns around. Dean still has the knife in his hand, a wicked sharp thing with a white handle. "Go home and send ... I'm assuming you know his real name is Sam, right? Send Sam over."

They're packed and ready to go in 20 minutes.

As they're pulling out of the drive, Derek walks over and hands Dean a slip of paper. "My AIM handle. Text me if you have _any_ reason to think Cyberdine is on to you."

"How serious is this hobby of yours?" Dean asks.

"Deadly serious."

Dean nods softly and the Impala rolls down the street, turns the corner, and is gone.

Derek probably won't see it or them again until he's 15.

But he doesn't give up hope.


End file.
